


One Year

by OfficialStarsandGutters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 11:39:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7048171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfficialStarsandGutters/pseuds/OfficialStarsandGutters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year following the fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Year

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick warm up piece. I actually have a longer story idea I want to start work on, but it's been so long since I've written something I wanted something brief to work my writing muscles.

He is exhausted. Mentally. Physically. In every way he can possibly imagine. The weight of existence is so very heavy, and it feels like it is crushing him, suffocating him, grinding his bones down to dust. He tries to drown the feeling however he can; with alcohol, with sex, even with a handful of the pills Jim left in the third drawer down of his desk. Those don't agree with him. He spends the better part of an evening vomiting and wonders how Jim ever found refuge in those.

Mostly, it is the silence. Not completely silent; no, never, not in central London. There is traffic and cars and the dim roar of life, but not here, not inside these walls. No typing fingers, no bubbling experiments, no hissed threats or phone calls in foreign tongues or even the soft sounds of gentle snoring. Every second of silence just emphasizes the lack of life. He tries turning on the television. Tries listening to the radio. They're not the right sounds, and they feel too loud, feel like they're grating along the inside of his skull like a metal fork dragging along the bottom of a steel pan.

“Why?” It is not the first time he has asked. The empty air gives him no response.

He's started grinding his teeth. His jaw is constantly aching. He wakes up from the nightmares with his jaw clenched so tight that the ache runs up along the side of his face, to his temples, buries itself beneath them and settles there as a tension headache. The dreams are a mixture, now. Explosions of dust and sand and blood; in his eyes, beneath his nails, settling along his tongue. In the midst of it; no longer just the little boy with his dead eyes, the little girl with her bloodstained night gown. No. Jim is there, too, now. Usually apart from them, but sometimes with them. Holding her hand. Stroking his hair.

When the gun comes out it is in Sebastian's hand, and he knows he has to shoot one of them. If he shoots one of them, it will end. If not, the explosions will come and they will all perish. His hands, always so still with a gun in them, shake uncontrollably. He cannot breathe; his throat is clogged up with sand. Blood drips from the corner of Jim's mouth. Sometimes it rises up like tears in his eyes, contaminating the whites with red. Leaves rivulets of crimson down the pale slopes of his cheeks. The little girl begins to cry.

Sebastian wants to turn the gun on himself, but his dream hands never let him.

Regardless of what happens, he always wakes up sweating. He gulps air down greedily, still convinced his mouth is full of sand. His throat is dry. Everything aches. Everything always aches. It is a sensation he is getting used to. Perhaps that is his penance.

*

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It has been- Fuck. I don't know how long it has been. Sorry. That's not great start, is it.” He hiccups loudly. “You see, I've done a lot of fucked up shit in my time- Forgive my language. I'm not very good at censoring myself, so you'll just have to- Have to bear with me.

I could blame it on a lot of things. Daddy never loved me – he always said that was the main problem, that's where so many of my issues stemmed for. Little shit. Fancied himself a bit of a psychologist. Fuckin' psycho, more like. Anyway, a lot of things. Forced to follow a path I had no choice in. Bred to be the trophy child. It would be easy, for me to say it's all their fault, but I don't think it is, Father.

You see, I enjoyed it too much. I thrived on it. I think, perhaps, some people are just born for that. I mean, if we ran off the same laws as nature, I'd be fuckin' alpha of the pack, you know? We make up these bullshit morals to police ourselves. Well, by that standard, I've been the worst of the worst. I've hit most of the big cardinal sins. Lust, pride, wrath. A little gluttony here, a little greed there. Maybe not so much sloth, but definitely envy. He always said I was so easy to make jealous. _You're so funny when you're jealous, Sebastian._ Prick.”

He takes a deep inhale. The bottle comes up to his lips, the bitter sting of whisky burning a trail the whole way down. His head falls back against the wooden divider of the confessional box.

“I've killed more people than I can count. For my country, but that was just an excuse, really. Then for him. I didn't need an excuse for him. He knew I enjoyed it, and I was good at it, and that I got a rush from it. I didn't have to lie with him. I couldn't lie with him.

See, I think they leave a big one off the list, y'know, Father? I think love should be up there too. Love is the biggest sin we commit against ourselves. Everything is so easy until you start loving someone. Then it gets so messy, so complicated, so... Shit. It's easy, when it's no strings, when it's casual, when you can walk away without blinking. Once you start wanting to stay, wanting them to stay... That's when it gets shit. Because you can't make anyone stay. If they decide to go, there's not a damn thing you can do to stop them. No matter how much you try.”

Sebastian blows smoke. The trail billows up from his mouth, disappearing into the dark shadows at the top of the confessional box.

“You're a good listener, Father. Then I guess you don't have much choice in that, do you? Hard to talk with a bullet between the eyes. See, this is why I can't buy into this Catholic bullshit any more. Might have done something for my mother, bless her soul, but how does it work when the men who have the power to cleanse us of the marks on our soul are diddling fuckin' kids, eh? Is that how you justified it? Just bat your eyelashes up at the statue of the crucifixion, mutter a few Hail Mary's, hey presto! Back on the guest list to heaven.”

He stands. Stubs his cigarette out against one of the dark wood panels.

“I don't really think that's how it works, Father. But hey. I'll see you in hell.”

He kicks the door open and makes his way down between the pews. As he passes the signs of the cross, different versions of Jesus in his suffering look down at him with big, sorrowful eyes.

“Fuck you an' all, big man.”

*

Jim's empire is crumbling and it hurts Sebastian more than anything, to see everything he worked for, his entire life, being torn apart. The criminals beneath him squabble like wild animals, all eager to claim a piece for themselves. They're doing so much damage there will be nothing left for them by the time they are done.

Sebastian does what he can, but he is not Jim. He can give CPR to this enterprise, manually keep its heart alive and beating for a while, but he cannot breathe life into it the way Jim can. The way Jim could. All he can do is slow the descent. He is on limited time and he knows it.

Often he wants to leave completely, start afresh, cut all cords that tie him to the memory of Jim, but he can't quite bear it. Not yet. At least with the empire, he has something to focus on. He still has jobs to finish. Then end is catching up with him, but as long as he can keep himself distracted, he can ignore it for now.

Some days he thinks of following Jim and swallowing a bullet. After all, he followed him everywhere before, why not now? It is only the tiny, wild fancy that Jim might come back that keeps him staggering through this existence.

*

“Hi, mum. Sorry I never got around to visiting before. I haven't been the best son, have I? Then again, that's hardly news to you. I hope you like the flowers. Petunias. See, I remembered. Your favourite. You always liked the colours. I'll just put them here, shall I? I know the vase isn't much, but it's the thought that counts, right? Right. I know you'd like it, anyway.

How many years has it been? I think I've lost count. Must be over a decade, now. Time flies. Over ten years and I couldn't find a moment for you. Or maybe it was just easier, avoiding it. Do you mind if I smoke? I know you always hated the smell, but it won't bother you now.”

Sebastian cups his hand around his cigarette. Hollows his cheeks and inhales as the tip catches the flame and burns a bright red. He exhales, long and slow. He puts his lighter back in his pocket and lets his left hand stay sunk in there as he looks down at the grave in front of him.

IN LOVING MEMORY OF

MARGARET MORAN

BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER

AND HER LOVING HUSBAND

AUGUSTUS MORAN

A DEAR HUSBAND AND FATHER

“I'm sorry you're trapped in there with him forever. Least you know I won't be jammed in there as well. Wouldn't want the place getting too crowded.”

He smokes his cigarette in silence, at the foot of his parent's grave. When he's done, he flicks the butt aside and steps forward, laying his hand on the cold marble of their headstone.

“I regret that I never got to say goodbye to you, mum. That seems to be reoccurring with me. I never get to say goodbye to anyone. Maybe it's better that way. Easier. Not that it feels it.”

He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. He glances around the graveyard, just to check no one is nearby, that no one can see him. He is quick when he leans forward, the chill of the stone startling against his chapped lips.

“Goodbye, mum. I'm sorry for everything.”

It is barely a whisper, not audible above the wind, and he knows it means nothing. Just a weak attempt to make himself feel better.

It doesn't work.

*

The little girl clings to his leg. She is still crying, her face pressed against his thigh. Her hold is tight, her nails biting through the fabric of his trousers and digging into his leg, tearing through flesh, leaving puncture wounds.

The boy reaches his arms up. He wants to be lifted. Sebastian is still holding the gun, cannot free his hands. The boy glares at him darkly. Half of his head is missing. Dark tufts of his hair stick to the brain matter visible beneath the missing fragments of his skull.

Jim holds out his hand to Sebastian. He wants nothing more than to take it, but he cannot move. His limbs are heavy, and the air is too thick for him to move through, is holding him in place. He tries desperately to move forward, his fingers extending so slowly towards Jim. He is never close enough.

Jim laughs and laughs and laughs until the back of his head explodes outward, and then he stops laughing. Stops everything. His hand drops before Sebastian can reach it.

*

He is tidying out Jim's office, finally, after months of leaving it standing like a tomb. Looking for anything useful that will help him. Any clue of how to continue Jim's work. Fuck, anything, at this point. From the middle of a pile of paperwork a file falls free. Sebastian swears as it hits the ground and spews papers everywhere.

He freezes when he realises what the papers are. Copies of Richard Brook's CV. Portraits and head shots and screen snaps. Jim does not take photographs of himself, definitely never kept any of himself in the flat. It has been over seven months since Sebastian has actually seen him and his chest aches at the sudden, unexpected sight.

He lifts one and looks at it closely. It is only then he realises all the details he had lost. Forgot the angle of his eyebrows, the colour of his eyes when the light hits them, the extent of his forehead. All things he thought would be etched into his brain forever, but even with Jim haunting his dreams most nights, human memory is weak. The Jim he remembered was a faded, flawed remake of the original.

Sebastian only realises he has forgotten to breathe when he has to gasp in a lungful of air.

He gathers the photos and leaves them on Jim's desk. Intends to dispose of them with the rest of the useless paperwork. He is not sentimental by nature, and he will not allow himself to become so. Jim would not approve.

They end up in his bedside drawer.

*

It's coming up to a year now. Jim's work is in tatters and the loose threads are starting to catch up with Sebastian. He feels he should be shocked at how quickly it all went to shit, but mostly he is just numb. He's gone beyond the point of pain or regret or even anger. He is just empty, hollow, aching, numb numb numb.

He sits in his chair. A glass of whiskey rests on one arm, his ashtray on the other. A half smoked cigarette rests in it. Jim hated him smoking in the flat. Jim isn't here any more, and now everything stinks of smoke. It has seeped into the furniture, the curtains; everything except their bedroom. His bedroom. Which has nothing to do with Jim's suits still hanging in the wardrobe and everything to do with Sebastian not wanting to sleep in a smoky bed.

He has a hand gun in his lap. It is a regular past time. He lifts the gun, rolls the comforting weight of it between his hands, and raises the barrel to eye level. He supposes most people would feel panicky or scared looking down the dark eye of a gun, but he just has an odd sense of calm. So rare to him now. A break in the monotony of his apathy.

“What do you say, Jim? Is it time to reacquaint?”

The empty air gives him no response.

 


End file.
